Happy Thanksgiving, everyone (well, to my fellow Americans, at least)! Please accept this horribly depressing chapter as my gift to you guys, because I'm so thankful to have all of you as my readers :)
"This," Johnna said as she toyed with her stitchwork, "is stupid."
As she watched from the adjacent chair, Caitie took a sip of some cider and arched a brow. "You're the one who asked me to help you."
"With combat. What does combat have to do with sewing?"
"Precision with a needle and precision with a sword are two sides of the same coin."
Johnna eyed her. "Is that some southern saying?"
Caitie shook her head. "It's something my brother told me when he tried to convince me to learn to sew."
"The word there being 'tried.'"
"Do as I say, but not as I do?" Caitie asked with a sheepish smile.
Johnna snorted and rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue, looking back down at the black fabric in her hands instead. And as she did, Caitie had to wonder if Johnna enjoyed sewing more than she let on.
Really, Caitie had only suggested it after the night they'd learned of Shireen's death. In the days that followed, Johnna's dreams had only gotten worse, even with the valerian root tea that Marna, the Free Folk healer, gave her. It had disrupted her sleep so badly she was too tired to spar without accidentally hurting either herself or someone else, and so Caitie, partially joking at the time, had offered her sewing as an alternative—not a replacement, but something to do to help her improve until they could figure out how to deal with the warg dreams.
Johnna, however, despite the snarky comments, had taken to sewing well—better than Caitie, at any rate. The two of them had spent the better part of the last four evenings sitting in their cottage while Willa helped in the gardens with the other children, where Johnna would work on the small handkerchief Caitie had instructed her to sew. It wasn't anything overly difficult, but Johnna, being quite the perfectionist, put more work into it than Caitie had ever been willing or able to.
She watched as Johnna furrowed her brows in concentration, trying to embroider a set of crude grey leaves onto the fabric. But her exhaustion was evident in the way her eyes drooped, and that made her sloppy.
"Are the dreams any better?"
Johnna's hands stilled; they hadn't discussed her dreams at all, these last few days. She seemed to prefer it when Caitie pretended not to remember why they weren't sparring in the evenings but sewing instead, and for the most part Caitie had indulged that wish. But it couldn't go on forever. "No," Johnna murmured, not looking up. "Sometimes I'm a fox or deer, sometimes I'm a bird. Sometimes I'm even a bear. But I can feel what they feel and I don't know how to control it. I wouldn't even care if I could just sleep."
And although she wasn't a warg, Caitie could understand that. Her own sleep had been even more fitful than usual lately. Nightmares plagued her; usually, she saw the faces of those she'd killed or hurt or failed, all staring at her with wide, unseeing eyes, and open mouths twisted in a silent scream of horror and betrayal. It was strange how she'd forgotten what they had looked like, yet saw their faces so clearly in her sleep. They taunted her until she woke up, at which point the guilt set in, for she knew that, unlike her, they would never wake again.
Sometimes it seemed that every time she learned to cope with one thing, another took its place. But she lived with it, and she bore the burden. It was the least she deserved.
Caitie put all this out of her mind. She could deal with her own issues later, but right now, Johnna needed her. For the thousandth time, she tried to think of a solution to the problem, but without another warg, Johnna would never truly learn to control her abilities, and so long as she couldn't, she would have the dreams.
If only Caitie could send a raven to Sam. He would know what to do. He always did.
At least the thought gave her an idea. "I could check Castle Black's library—see if it has any information about warging."
"Yeah, 'cause the crows really care about wargs," Johnna snapped. As soon as she said it, she winced. "Sorry. I didn't mean…"
"It's all right," Caitie said. "I just meant that Castle Black's library has been built up for thousands of years. It's worth a look."
"I guess." But Johnna didn't sound convinced.
After glancing out the window to see the sun shining, Caitie turned to her friend and said, "Let's go for a walk."
"A walk," Johnna repeated flatly.
"You've been working on that same leaf for the last five minutes. You need a break."
Johnna paused to think about it. Then, with a sigh, she threw her half-made handkerchief onto the barrel beside her. "Fine," she said, and the hint of a smile peeked through. It was the first Caitie had seen in days. "I guess a break can't hurt. I mean, I've only been sewing for three days, and I'm already better than you. Not that it's saying much."
Caitie scoffed. "You are such a brat. Why do I even put up with you?"
Johnna grinned for the first time in days, and stuck her tongue out. Even so, she hopped off her chair without complaint and joined Caitie at the door. Chill air wafted in, clear and crisp with a smell Caitie couldn't truly define but had come to associate with autumn.
Their walk led them to the town square, where Tormund and Dim Dalba were ending their spar. Tormund had won, though it was a near thing. Over at the garden patch in the corner, Willa chatted animatedly with a few of the other children around her age, too engrossed in the conversation to notice Caitie and Johnna. But the men did. They waved both girls over, giving Caitie the same looks they and had been giving her since the night of Shireen's death—looks she had never expected from a people considered wild and savage.
It was an out-of-body experience. Caitie had only ever been told how cold and merciless the Wildlings were; how ruthless and hard and uncaring. And in some ways, it was true. The Free Folk were tough—tougher than anyone she'd ever known. But to those they had befriended, they were fiercely loyal, understanding, and even kind. In some ways—a lot of ways, actually—they reminded her of Gilly. Tormund had let Caitie win their spars at least half the time, and even put up with her good-natured teasing at his expense. Dim Dalba had offered his sincerest condolences—though, a lot less formally put. Willa had gifted her a makeshift perfume made from winter roses that Caitie brushed through her hair every morning since. And Wun-Wun had begun properly teaching her Mag Nuk, with help from a few of the other Free Folk who spoke the Old Tongue.
Of course, Caitie had already discovered a passion for learning new languages from Maester Aemon, but learning the Old Tongue was a special kind of passion. If Owen and Cerys could have seen her, they would have been so excited—and so proud.
"Ah, Caitie. Care for a spar?" Dim Dalba asked by way of greeting.
"Not right now. We're just out for a walk."
He grinned at Johnna. "What about the little one? You've got yourself a mighty sword arm. Comes from your mother."
"Too tired," she replied, listing towards Caitie. She didn't know if Johnna was truly too tired or if the mention of Karsi had sapped her of what little strength she had left. Both, if she had to hazard a guess.
Tormund grunted. "You doing okay?"
Johnna only shrugged. Tormund eyed Caitie, knowing it was a lie as much as the rest of them did. But he didn't push—though he might have done so, had it not been for the interruption.
"Tormund!" The four of them looked around for this new voice. It belonged to a Free Folk boy of fifteen who ran towards them, eyes wide with alarm. He stopped in front of them and opened his mouth to speak, but when he tried, he doubled over, too out of breath to do anything but sputter.
"Styregg, what is it?" asked Tormund.
"A rider," he said through his heaves. "In black."
Caitie furrowed her brows. "Night's Watch?"
All Styregg could manage was a nod.
She, Dim Dalba, and Tormund exchanged nervous glances. Caitie didn't know why Jon would send someone without a proper warning first. Maybe it had to do with the Boltons or Stannis's defeat or… her father.
That was a terrifying thought.
"I'll go greet him. I want to make sure he isn't accidentally attacked," Caitie said, sounding much more poised than she felt.
"Whoever he is," Dim Dalba grumbled.
She ignored him. "Tormund?"
Caitie didn't need to voice the rest of her question. Tormund nodded, falling into step beside her. Johnna followed along behind them.
They had only made it a few feet to the outskirts of the town square when the rider came into view; a black and brown speck that grew larger every passing second. The horse had been put at a full gallop. When the brother got close enough for her to make out details, Caitie's face lit up. She would recognize that rider anywhere.
"Edd!" she exclaimed, breaking into an ear-splitting grin. Her boots kicked up dirt as she sprinted to meet him, Tormund and Johnna at her heels.
Caitie skidded to a halt just as he dismounted. She expected Edd to greet her with a wry comment or vaguely insulting joke. But when he turned to face her, she saw no humor, just… despair. A chill ran down her spine.
"Caitie," he choked, grasping her forearms. His eyes were rimmed red. Edd had been crying. "I'm sorry. He's gone."
What came after was a blur.
In the years that followed, Caitie would look back upon those hours and wonder how she managed it. She didn't think, didn't feel. Everything inside of her simply turned off. She didn't know how she kept her body upright and her legs moving, but somehow, she gathered her things into her pack and helped Edd and Tormund form a small group of two hundred—including Wun-Wun—for the march to Castle Black.
Edd didn't explain much to them—only that some of the brothers, angry about Jon's decisions, had mutinied and killed him. They would have killed the loyalists along with Jon, but Ser Davos had helped Edd and the others barricade themselves in one of the old studies, and sent Edd south to gather the Free Folk for reinforcements.
More than that, Edd either wouldn't say or didn't know. Caitie suspected it was the former.
She supposed she would find out for herself soon enough.
The whole of Queenscrown devolved into chaos, once word got out. Free Folk ran every which way, packing their weapons and barking out commands to each other. Johnna and Willa found their way over to Edd, Tormund, and Caitie just as they were finishing preparations. Both girls had their own traveling packs hanging from their shoulders.
Tormund noticed them first. "No."
Johnna glared at him. "I'm not gonna be left behind."
"I'll get you when it's safe. But you're not coming."
Willa tried next. "Tormund, please?"
"No."
Tormund's tone left no room for argument—but Karsi's daughters were nothing if not stubborn. They turned to Caitie for support. And although she wanted nothing more than to keep them close to her, right now what mattered more was keeping them away from the Night's Watch; keeping them safe, with almost two-thousand warriors to look out for them.
"Please, just stay here," Caitie said, her voice weaker than she would have liked. "We'll come back for you."
"Mother said the same thing. She lied."
"Johnna!" Willa exclaimed.
Caitie hardly heard it. The rustle of the trees, the sounds of the Free Folk running about—all of it faded into nothing. "That's not fair," she whispered, feeling like someone had slapped her.
Johnna, at least, had the decency to look ashamed of herself.
"I'm sorry about the lord commander," said Willa, trying to move the conversation onward. "I can tell you really loved him. I think he really loved you, too."
Somehow, Caitie held herself together, despite her heart wanting to burst out of her chest from the pain. "Thank you, Willa."
"I know you have to go, but you'll come back, won't you? You promise?"
"I promise."
When Caitie looked over at Johnna, she had tears in her eyes. "We'll—we'll stay here. I just…"
Caitie swallowed, feeling assured by Johnna's outburst. Because in some strange way, Johnna's anger showed how much she cared. "I'll come back. I promised, and I meant it."
And before she knew what was what, Johnna had bolted over, thrown herself into Caitie's arms, hugging her with all the might a twelve-year-old possessed. When they pulled away from each other, Caitie eyed both girls one last time. With a deep breath, she followed after Tormund and Edd. And even though it killed her, Caitie did not look back, for she knew if she did, she would crumble.
A mere hour after Edd's arrival, they were on the move. The three of them led at the front, with Wun-Wun behind them. There were no drums or fanfare for this march; nothing to propel them forward but sheer will. As she put one foot in front of the other, Caitie's mind had nothing left to do other than to dwell on what she would find upon returning home.
Her mouth moved without her permitting it. "Who was it?"
Edd made no comment, but she knew he'd heard her, considering that her voice was the only sound beyond their footsteps.
Caitie ground her teeth and tried again. "Edd, who was it?"
He grimaced, but at least he answered her question this time. "Ser Alliser."
Caitie shot him a look of contempt for the evasion. Anyone could have figured that much out. But she knew there were more. There had to be more for Edd to need the Free Folk. "Who else?"
"Caitie—"
"Who else?"
Edd sighed. "Othell Yarwyck, Bowen Marsh—"
"All the officers?"
"Aye." A pause. Edd's eyes darted away from hers, and then back again. "What're you gonna do when we get there?"
"What am I going to do?" To be honest, Caitie wasn't sure. She had no plan beyond putting one foot in front of the other. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."
"You can't kill them."
Caitie's head snapped away from the view ahead, over to her friend. He looked haggard, but firm. Her jaw tensed. She hadn't been planning on killing anyone—not unless they forced her hand. But that was her choice to make. Not Edd's. "Don't you dare presume to tell me what I can and can't do."
"Damn it, Caitie—think. It'll be a bloodbath. The Free Folk have the numbers to decimate the remaining black brothers. How'll that look to the rest of Westeros? What will happen to all these people we've worked to save when Roose fucking Bolton finds out Wildlings killed the commander of Castle Black?"
"I know what would happen," she snapped.
For whatever reason, her words sparked Edd's temper. "You think I like this?" he asked heatedly. "I want to kill those bastards as much as you do for what they did. It's all I've thought about. But we can't. Not even Thorne. We'll lock them up, let them rot in the dungeons until we figure out what to do next."
Caitie wanted to laugh at that. Wherever she was, whatever future she might have envisioned, Jon was always there, beside her. What came next without him?
"We'll make sure they get justice. I promise you that. We just have to do it the right way."
Justice… that should have made her feel better. But it didn't. She felt nothing but despair.
"What happened to Ghost?" Her voice came out hoarse and thin, and for a quick second, she hoped Edd hadn't heard her question. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
But Edd did hear her, and he answered, seemingly glad for the change in topic. "He's holed up with the others. Guarding the…" Edd trailed off, but Caitie knew what he'd been about to say.
The body. Jon's body.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Who's with him?"
"Ser Davos, the red woman—"
Caitie shot him a look, wondering if Edd had gone mad.
"Oh, I know," he said. "But she seemed upset—said she saw Jon fighting at Winterfell. I think she's on our side. And right now, we need whoever we can get."
Caitie snorted. She wasn't even sure she trusted Ser Davos to help them, let alone Melisandre. "Besides them?"
"Hobb, Dareon, and Halder."
"That's it?"
Edd flinched. "Aye. The rest are either too afraid of Thorne or…" He sighed. "Or they agree with him."
No wonder they needed the Free Folk. She took a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand and contract. And then, without a word more, she set her eyes forward, onto the horizon, where nothing but a fight—and pain—lay ahead.
They reached the gates of Castle Black by sundown. With nightfall, the already-freezing temperature dropped further, though Caitie didn't feel it. She didn't feel anything, too focused on Castle Black's gates. Jon's corpse lay behind them, inside the castle itself.
The men standing in her way were the ones who'd killed him.
"Fuck," Edd growled. "I should've realized they'd close the gates."
Caitie exchanged a glance with Tormund. There was a reason they'd brought a giant along.
"Wun-Wun," he said. "Break it down."
It took Wun-Wun exactly six tries before the gates broke from their hinges with a loud pop! He stepped through, eliciting a war cry that made Caitie's ears hurt and her head spin. From behind him, the rest of the Free Folk spilled out with war cries of their own, surging forward.
She followed the herd, Edd at her side, wondering if he was thinking the same thing as she: that this was the second time they had to face their own brothers; brothers who had killed their lord commander. It was ironic; Caitie had never thought it possible to hate a mutineer more than she'd hated Rast and Karl Tanner. But these men—what they'd done was personal.
The first line of defense was a row of archers. They took anxious steps backward as the Free Folk pushed towards them, their bows held taut, arrows ready to be released at a moment's notice. The Free Folk and mutineers sized each other up.
"Attack!" The furious order came from Alliser Thorne—she'd know his voice anywhere. Caitie looked up to the balcony, where she saw him drawing his sword.
A cry rang out, and her eyes snapped back to the view in front of her, just as a black streak ran at Tormund with his sword raised. Tormund cut the mutineer down in two short strikes. The rest of them stood, their weapons flagging. Caitie could see the fear written on their faces, knowing they were outnumbered.
"Fight, you cowards!" Thorne screeched, sprinting down the steps and into the courtyard.
At his order, an arrow from above shot through the sky, implanting itself in Wun-Wun's back. For one terrible moment, Caitie worried that it might have hurt him. She should have known better; he pulled it out, none the worse for wear, and turned towards the crossbow-wielder who'd shot it. Caitie recognized him as Ser Patrek of King's Mountain, though he'd never said more than two words to her.
His eyes widened as Wun-Wun growled, plucking Ser Patrek from the balcony, and flinging him against the stone wall of Castle Black. There was a squelch from the impact, and then Wun-Wun flung the bloody corpse to the ground at Ser Alliser's feet.
He stepped back, looking down at his dead brother with mingled shock and horror.
A tense pause followed. Part of Caitie hoped the standoff would end without more bloodshed, but the other part—the part that whispered in her ear, reminding her that they killed Jon—hoped they would force her hand. Because she wanted to kill them more than she'd wanted to kill anyone in her life.
Wun-Wun growled again, and one by one, the mutineers dropped their weapons. The Free Folk, joined by Caitie and Edd, surrounded them. Caitie counted them all—Ser Alliser, Othell Yarwyck, Bowen Marsh, One-eyed Joe, Brant, Derek, a few others. All of them, she expected, but when her eyes found the last, she froze in place.
Olly.
No—there was no way. Olly wouldn't. He'd been angry with Jon, but he wouldn't…
Yes, he would. Of course he would. How had she not seen it?
Edd closed in, his sword raised and pointed at Ser Alliser's chest, shielding Caitie from view in the process. "You fucking traitor."
"The only traitors here," Edd growled, "are the ones who shoved their knives into their lord commander's heart."
"For thousands of years, the Night's Watch has held Castle Black against the Wildlings."
Tormund took a step forward, eyes boring into Ser Alliser. "Until you."
A scream pierced the air; a cry of pure anguish and fury, too high to be a man's—Olly's cry—as he ran towards Tormund with a sword in his hands. Tormund could have killed him—he certainly had the ability—but instead, he shoved Olly into Edd's arms, who placed him in a protective hold and handed him off.
Two other Free Folk gripped Thorne's arms, holding him in place. Edd met his gaze. "Throw them into the cells where they belong," he ordered.
The mutineers were hauled off in a procession, all while they struggled to escape, with Ser Alliser in the lead. He caught Caitie's eye as he passed her by, and his features contorted into a sneer as he struggled further in order to reach her. "You bitch! I should've known—"
The Free Folk escorting him yanked him along a little too roughly, and Ser Alliser grunted in pain. Caitie watched him go, not feeling safe until he was out of sight. Afterwards, she looked up; Ser Davos stood on the balconies now, flanked by Dareon, Hobb, and Halder.
Edd and Tormund came to stand by her side, and the three of them watched the rest of the mutineers as the Free Folk led them away. There was a part of Caitie that never wanted the procession to end; once it did, she would have to face what came next.
"You ready?" Tormund asked.
Her lungs seized up, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe. But still, Caitie nodded. They walked up the steps to the terraces, where Ser Davos waited for them. "My lady," he greeted her, head bowed. "You have my deepest condolences."
She nodded once, unable to say anything else. Her whole body was too weighed down, and if she spoke, it might just collapse. Mercifully, when her eyes met Hobb's, he said nothing. He only clasped her shoulder and nodded, grim-faced, apparently understanding that condolences wouldn't help, here.
Tormund voiced the question she couldn't get out. "Where is he?"
Without a word more, Edd led them through the corridors until they got to Maester Aemon's old solar. Caitie's heart thundered in her chest as he pushed the door open. They had placed Jon's body on a long, narrow table at the center of the room. Ghost lay at its feet, but his tail didn't thump against the ground at the sight of her like it normally did. He looked as broken as she felt.
Caitie was only vaguely aware of the others in the room with her, for she couldn't take her eyes off Jon. He lay on his back, his eyes closed and his mouth parted slightly. His skin was a sick, colorless grey, his lips blue. His black leathers were covered in blood. Caitie counted six wounds, five of which were positioned just the right to keep from causing immediate death; the sixth had been plunged straight into Jon's heart. She knew what it meant.
It meant that Thorne and the others had dragged it out to make him suffer.
"Took a lot of knives," Tormund said. He looked up at Ser Davos. "I'll have my men get the wood for a fire. Bodies to burn."
Caitie couldn't muster a response; the thought of Jon burning was too much for her to bear just then.
Tormund turned away from the body and strode out of the room, taking Dareon and Halder with him. He let the door shut behind them. Even as it slammed shut, Caitie didn't look up from Jon's face.
"Tell me what happened." Somehow, her voice sounded steady, but it was monotone—as though there was nothing left inside of her.
Perhaps there wasn't, anymore.
"I told you—" Edd started.
"Not you." Caitie didn't trust Edd to tell her the full truth. And she needed to hear it, however horrible. "Him." She locked eyes with Ser Davos from across the table. "Edd said you found him first."
"Aye, I did, my lady," Davos replied, uncertainty lacing his tone. "I found him in the snow. He was gone when I got there."
"Caitie," Edd said with a gentleness she had never heard from him before—not even after Grenn. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "You sure you want to hear this?"
"Yes."
"From what we know," Davos continued, eyes flickering between her and Edd, "Ser Alliser and the others lured him into the courtyard."
"How?"
"I—I don't know."
Hobb cleared his throat; Caitie hadn't even realized he was still in the room. "Halder saw Olly leading him there. The senior officers must have been waiting for him." Caitie's blood ran cold. Jon, who had taught Olly to wield a sword, who had accompanied him to a weirwood to take his vows, who had made him his steward. And still, Olly had helped kill him.
"And then they stuck their knives in him and left him to die alone in the snow," she finished, her voice quiet. It sounded like a stranger speaking, for she felt anything but quiet. Rage, despair, shame, fear, and unparalleled grief crashed upon her, eroding the foundations she'd built for herself, turning her into a shell made from nothing but loss.
And what else had she expected? Her whole life had been marked by it—her mother, Mormont, Owen and Cerys, Grenn, Pyp, Shireen, Maester Aemon. Almost everyone else she'd ever cared for had died.
Except for…
"I'm going to have to tell Sam," she murmured.
"What?"
"I'm going to have to tell Sam that Jon's…" A sob forced its way through her chest.
She thought of Ser Alliser, and the familiar tug of rage that she'd been trying so hard to control flew out of her grasp. Seeing Jon's body, feeling his lifeless hand in hers had destroyed her too thoroughly to care anymore. For she hadn't just lost her best friend; she had lost a part of herself. She had lost the person who made her feel… alive.
Caitie couldn't believe she'd left Castle Black, believing it would allow her to heal. Because how was she supposed to heal when all the world did was take and take and take?
She spun around. Edd grabbed her arm. "Caitie, no."
"Don't touch me!"
She tried to break from his grasp, but his grip only tightened. "You promised you wouldn't."
"I don't care! I tried and I failed and I can't—I just can't!" Her cries echoed off the walls of the room, and in the silence that followed all she could do was think, I can't do this without him. And those monsters took him from me. "I am going to kill them all, and don't you dare try and stop me."
That isn't what Jon would want, a voice whispered. He would want you to protect the Free Folk.
Caitie scowled. That had been the only thing keeping her from driving Owen into Alliser Thorne's gut. But now, it wasn't enough. Now, she wanted to hurt, to tear him apart piece by piece. She wanted to make him feel the agony she felt.
Violence begets violence, said the voice. Vengeance begets vengeance. Don't continue the cycle or it will continue to take from you.
She ignored it. Everyone she'd ever known or loved had killed people—good people, bad people, men, women, children. Even Owen and Cerys, the best the world had to offer, had undoubtedly killed hundreds. That's all the world was: an endless string of death and destruction, perpetrated by everyone, even those who tried to be better.
And if so, then what was the point of fighting against it? She'd tried to stop the cycle. She'd failed, and now Jon was dead.
Caitie wrenched her arm away from Edd so hard it hurt her. But when she turned, she caught another glimpse of Jon's body. Every muscle in her body froze. She knew, then, that she would not be going to the dungeons, because she wouldn't leave him. Not until the very end.
Her anger drained, giving way to a dull ache spreading throughout her whole body. Because even though Caitie wanted to murder the men who had done this—wanted to make their deaths last as long and painful as they'd made his—it would never give her what she truly wanted.
There wasn't any vengeance for her to take. There wasn't any justice to be had. There was just loss, and nothing—not even killing the men who'd done this—could fill the void Jon had left behind.
Seeing her calm slightly, Edd sighed. "C'mon. You need to sleep," he said. When didn't move, he added, "You've been awake for over a day. Your head isn't on straight."
"I can't."
Ser Davos cleared his throat. "I doubt you want the opinion of an old man, but a good rest is what you need."
"I'm not leaving him," she croaked, the lump in her throat so painful that she found it hard to speak.
Edd huffed. "Caitie—"
"I have to stay. I can't—I won't leave him."
"You can't help him."
"I know that," she snapped, her voice breaking. "Please. I just need to be here."
Neither Edd nor Davos nor anyone else in the room spoke again, realizing there was no persuading her. The floor creaked, and a familiar set of paws padded over. Ghost leaned into Caitie. Her fists found his fur; she clutched it like a lifeline as tears streamed down her cheeks. She did her best to hide them from the others, though she didn't think she succeeded.
"Come on, boys," Edd said, sighing. "Let's go. The others'll need help." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll come get you when it's… time."
When it was time for Jon's body to burn; just like Grenn's.
Ser Davos opened his mouth to say something to her, but he seemed to think better of it. He inclined his head. "My lady." And together, he and Edd left the room, Dareon right behind them.
It wasn't until they had gone that Caitie let her sobs hit her in full force. She made no effort to hold them back, allowing herself to give in and release everything she'd bottled up. She turned her face, so it was buried into the fur of Ghost's side, and the memory of herself doing something similar after Grenn's death came to mind. But this was different—this was worse. Back then, Ghost had allowed her to cry into his fur because it comforted her. Now he lifted his head and howled, harmonizing with her sobs.
Ghost wasn't lending her comfort. He was mourning along with her.
Caitie remembered the letter Jon had sent, informing her of Shireen's loss. It must not have been long before his death—a day, maybe, if that. Just come home soon, all right? I think Ghost misses you, he had written.
Well, she was home, and she was with Ghost. But she had come far too late.
Et tu, Olly?